[x]

The FaderA whisperer of buried words;
with parchment paper fingertips
she spins a tale of love in vain,
to remind her it isn't to remain.
She blends to the wall like a flower,
bends to it like bamboo.
Something lonely about the way,
she stills and waits to fade away.
(a downcast gaze)
They all play pretty charades,
while she sweeps her game of spades
(and to this day- still one she plays )
She paints portraits of Jays,
whispers that they know her name.
She says that one day they will be all that remains
as the little wallflower fades.

The Intelligent Are So SadA cascade of words parade around,
with thoughts of atoms and connotation.
She is brilliant, they say,
but she knows she is lost.

Numbers are her companion,
she understands their mean, average.
Words can twist her brain,
she loves the wonder they bring.

She is intelligent, they say,
but sometimes,
she doesn't feel clever enough.
Sometimes she feels clever too much.

Excusez-moi, in perfect French,
but nothing is gained by perfect word tense.
She is clever, they say.
But she is not clever the way they know.

She sees things as they are,
and she prefers her thoughts to the world.
She knows she loves them more than they in return

Lullaby!Gentle heartbeat old as time
Metronome tempo close to mine.

There at night when claimed by sleep
Early morning hear its beat.

Two hearts quintessentially sing
Melody soft, substance takes wing

Crooning beautifully, no stop or start.
Syncronized rhythmn, beating hearts.

In tune with life, tender lullaby
softly sung like angel's sigh.

2012 Delice1941
11thSeptember2012

Quartz and StoneAugmented flesh of quartz and stone.
rotting slowly, by Chronos, till bone.
Grooves of time, over malachite,
mark rare beauty, each passing night.
I look away torn, and shed my tears,
as I recognize my darkest fears.
Those weathered lines on stone face fine,
are the very same, marked on mine.

Three WishesI wanted three wishes

So I traveled to Egypt

In search of a magic lamp

I saw a shiny object on top of a pyramid

The object caught the sun's light

I climbed up the pyramid

On top of the pyramid

Stood a golden magic lamp

It was truly beautiful

The way it sparkled in

The sunlight

I carefully picked up the magic lamp

And rubbed it

In a puff of smoke

Out came a genie asking me

What my three wishes would be

I smiled at the genie and answered

My first wish is

I would like for the world to be peaceful

Not just for me but for everyone

My second wish is

To let you be free

The genie looked at me in shock

But why would you waste on

Hunting Avalon's MoonBeneath a sky of Kings, mortal life quivered
Warm rains spilled a fever of unborn dreams;
— like a silent song of golden pollen falling in
timeless reverie, seeding forests arcane
The dawn of enchantment crested ancient lands,
adorning the hunger of shadows and spirits
Long I stood in the flow of primeval rapture...
where unto the hallowed beckoned wild
I slept in the cradle of Nature's magick,
windswept in feasts of tongue & flame
Dreams and dreamers, in haste I did reap
And I thrusted my sword into the sky
Ever night's bequest, the stars shall not die

Thru seasons of fabled rhythms I roamed;
— my soul etched into the mists

DreamsWhat wonders the imagination can bring
With opened ear and untamed eye
Dreams that we shall toss and fling
And float about towards the sky

By luminous light of thought
Day and night will awaken newly
And become what you have sought
To find your most distant Thule

Never letting go of that which we cherish
The spirit of innocence and truth
Why without it, what would we but perish?
In the darkness of lost youth

A is for Analytical, C is for crazy.Fluid candelight hollows the bruises under his eyes,
carves his face into shadows and highlights.
He sits, steady and quiet, and listens.
They whisper and laugh and sigh,
chatter like mockingbirds.
(He believes it's all code. They whisper his secrets and laugh at him.
They mock him, those mockingbirds.
His head says he's too smart to fall for friendship.)
No one's quite sure why he wont trust,
a wire loose in his brain, they say.

A thinker, she is, with faded phrases and calculations.
She is wrapped around a train of thought
that twists and mutilates until it is no longer recognizable.
Recreation of her thoughts are futile,
she

Her Musethese words are not poetry

swimming liquid fire through ashes

of dead phoenix veins.

no, they are rough and callused

with over use, their own faithless artists

spewing black tar from their lungs

in the hopes to one day breathe again.

nothing moves her.

she would rather scribble her heart out

on physical manifestations of her own reality-

on skin and bones she worships like a temple.

"Write of me," he says, "right here."-

planting sun-stricken kisses

along the hollow of her burning throat.

"I want to be where your heart sleeps."

My EndymionI was never a fond of love;
I never invited it into my bed,
nor gave it my tears.
Not that it would ask.

And yet tears I do now give,
in sacrifice.
To a man who never asked nor incited such feelings.
Feelings that crowd my mind,

And weigh my chest down.
With uncontrolled emotions that spire into fires of passion.
Pretty words seeming so small to describe,
the obsolete moment of truth that banishes dreams for reality.

Oh how the light so gently touches you,
and that smile.
That gives me a smile of my own.
This is a tragedy of situation my friend.

Sorrow for joy;
my dear Endymion.

SilenceThey say speaking is silver and silence is gold,
In some cases it might be true.
But there is also a truth that goes untold,
Even if it might be quite blue.

Silence is sometimes bad,
Not always so don't get upset.
Some things that are evil can make us go mad,
Some things that are even a threat.

Even if your enemies will make your blood boil,
The silence of your friends will be what hurts you more.
Words might hurt us, but silence can torment us.

The Littlest ArtistThis life isn't easy
I weave my work
Wherever I please
But I've been run out
Place to place
Wherever I end up

I've had fans
Who I'm thankful for
Critics that ignore me
But the one thing
That I'll never understand
Are those who hate me

They see me
They destroy my work
They try to kill me
My legs are tired
I can't run
I can hide
But if they find me
I fear the thought

Is it because I'm so small?
In such a big world
Is it because I scare people?
I don't mean too

Or is it because...
...I am merely a spider

RebirthThe ravage comes to plea defeat,
Pride's old throne, an empty seat.
Once inked paper now found bare,
As my muse's whispers now turn rare.

Questions sent to looming corners,
Treading blindly to tear down barriers.
I must look like the losing warrior,
Thrust in battle without an armor.

Inspirations seeped from dry wells,
Like squeezing flame from a million hells.
The spill of flow embedded in night,
My soul's sanctuary trapped in fright.

The stars of hope flicker far,
Watching me grovel in this hour.
A fool I was to deafly pretend,
A blank canvas would never descend.

Yet in these spells of solid bind,
Are plenty gold and treasu

The Problem IsWell that's the price
The price you pay
When you want to stay but you push it away
You don't want to hurt
But you will either way
Your heart will keep breaking day after day

And it's a choice
That we all have to make
Whether it's worth it to leave or to stay
In truth, you can't leave
You've driven the stake
More steadfast than any promise they make

Some people are lucky,
I don't count myself one
If I try to give up, I end up all undone
If you can detach yourself,
Do, and have fun
But I'll keep on staring straight into the sun

For the one hope I need and the one hope I've lost
The hope I'll strive for, no matter the cost
It

Hanging by a MomentI will always wonder what she was thinking that day.
Though I wasn't the kindest or bravest,
Nor was I the smartest or most charming,
For some reason, on that day, she chose me.

I was plenty surprised to say the least;
Certainly with her charm, beauty and wits,
She could have had anyone in the world,
And yet she choose me, a spoony poet.

It was as if an occult hand swooped from
The heavens and turned her gaze towards me,
For it could have only been divine work,
To make me worth an angel's attention.

Here I am, clutching to that memory,
Hanging by a moment.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 814 bytes more ▶

More from ~LuckyClover38

Sometimes I trySometimes I try to paint.

Sometimes it's dark eyeliner pencils and foundation in artful swirls.
(Just try to paint over the ugly but it wont leave me alone)
but sometimes it's a palette of colors and I can see the world again.
(Things look better in a different light outside of my mind)

Sometimes I try to sing.

Sometimes it just comes out as screams and horrifying sobs.
(It's all I can do when I'm struggling alone)
but sometimes I'm not afraid to sing, even when I can't.
(My lullaby has no melody but I'll make the world hear it anyways)

Sometimes I try to write.

Sometimes it's broken phrases that never match up right.
(I can't see

Footprint novelFootprints in the snow are novels,
a simple closed book.
Waiting to be dusted and uncovered,
when someone cares to look.

They tell where you've been,
and where you're going to go.
A story left untold,
until someone cares to know.

Icy slices, pale as ashes,
seeming nightmare dark.
A willowy wisp of a figure,
against the snow so stark.

And you wonder where he's been,
and where he's going to go.
So open up the footprint book,
and maybe someday you will know.

SilenceA black abyss, a simple hole in the ground. As far into the dirt as the eye can see, swallowing, ever swallowing. The hard edges careen down, slipping into darkness. Nightmare black, the sounds are heard, never seen. A snapping, like the impact of a ghost shattering a thousand fragile mirrors. Their reflected light only hints at the surface.
The world steps away, astounded. Wary of the secrets hidden deep, the shattered mirrow slices reflect on their faces, light dancing across panic. Another cracking, splintering madness breaks the silence.

Flight RiskBroken branches rip through sight,
as she turns and runs in fright.
Hard edged boundries hide the monsters-
ever, ever coming closer!
Seeking solace she wont find
hunters chasing from behind.
Bounding, she begs to be let go,
trembling and fleeing through the snow.
Her legs give out and feet slip through.
The frivilous fleeing was all well spent,
but really, do pursuers ever relent?
She's lost and given up the fight
so they take her and dissapear into the night.

SleepFluffy clouds seem as silk
And soft feet slip, floundering across cumulus clouds,
She walks on cloud nine, her soft slippers,
Leaving slim traces of her presence.
She is quiet and slow, but slowly peaceful,
Laying in the snowy fleece,
On snowy clouds she falls asleep.
Wrapped in quiet white,
She discovers the peace she craves,
To last through the velvet night.

What if the world.What if the world were simply an insignificant speck of dust?
Fluttering away and twisted into the stem
of a blossoming flower on another
world?
We would all be smaller than the cells
that are our building blocks.
What if catastrophes, like earthquakes
and hurricanes
were just the imprinted footstep of some higher creature
stepping down on us?
We would drift and spin in the wind
and sparkle in the sun
swirling with millions of other
dust mote planets.
What if thunder and lightining
we just us falling off the edge of the flower- tipping,
and tumbling through the sky,
striking the ground with a boom.
Or maybe our little spec

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#written-from-within
Written From the Soul

#TheWritersMeow
Cool Cats Who Write

#writingclub
write it for real!

#BleedingHeartsPoetry
A Poetry Club

#ThePoetryofDA
DA Poetry Club

#poetry-book

#Writers4Life
Writers Welcomed

#ink-slingers
Writing Community

Show all (53)

Details

Submitted: August 29, 2012
File Size: 814 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 34
Favourites: 68 [who?]
Views: 1,001 (0 today)
Downloads: 6 (0 today)

[x]

Ink Graves

by ~LuckyClover38, Aug 29, 2012, 3:55:57 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Letterless words and pageless books-
and ink blots on the flowers;
Ghosts scratch their heads and tap their pens,
all across the hours.

Winds can howl and cease to be,
by one twitch of my pen;
I spoke of writing a poem tonight,
and by dawn I've written ten.

Emily sits aside nobody,
the Raven, above, waits;
Frost dances in a yellow wood,
among the long lost dates.

A tall, well spoken willow,
looms over the grave;
Protecting every dated word,
and every thought they gave.

I crumple another masterpiece,
with thoughts I'd thought to save;
and as it strikes the baset bottom,
it rests in its ink grave.

Ink Gravesby ~LuckyClover38

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Thanks for reading

love 1 1

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*Foreststone Mar 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I'm here to give a critique from #Inspiring-Words

!

First off, I would like to say I absolutley love this poem! It is so original!

Second off, the critique!
The puncuation is good, after reading up on poetry puncuation (need to do some more

) and standards it is good but some tips are you don't need to do it after every stanza (at least I don't think) correct me if I'm wrong

. What I have heard throughout the past 6 or 7 years I've been writing poetry you don't need to puncuate after each stanza.
For example you could do this:
Winds can howl and cease to be
by one twitch of my pen;
I spoke of writing a poem tonight
and by dawn I've written ten.
The reason I say this is because poets (and readers of poems) usually know to stop after each stanza but once again correct me if I'm wrong

Your words are powerful, so I have no comment on that

.
The emotion is just as powerful!
Like the critique before me said it is like your writing about dead poets, which is really cool.
Once again this a beautiful poem

!
That is all for my critique!
This poem has been moved to the "Poetry III" folder

~LuckyClover38 Mar 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you so much for the critique

*Foreststone Mar 15, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Welcome!
Love you avatar btw it is so freaking cute

`MagicalJoey Nov 29, 2012 Writer

I will be critiquing this piece on behalf of

Firstly, even though it is a tad revealing, I still love the title.

Now, the crit:

ST = Stanza

L = Line

I like how you set up the scene of a graveyard of stories by mentioning 'letterless words' and 'pageless books', almost as if they are tombstones or something similar. However, letterless should be a compound word, letter-less.

ST 2 is lovely in the way it shows the control the speaker has over what he or she is writing.

ST 3 seems to me as if you are writing about other famous authors. Emily Dickenson (I am not too sure on the surname), Edgar Allen Poe and Robert Frost. However, I'm not too sure what the 'long lost dates' are and how they refer to the rest of the ST.

ST 4 seems to give the ideas that the authors mentioned in ST 3 are the ghosts mentioned in ST 1. If this is the case then I would change 'grave' to 'graves' as there would be more than one. Especially as you mention Ghosts in ST 1.

ST 5: What is a baset? My dictionary doesn't have it. Could it have perhaps started out as basket?

I like how you have punctuated this piece, you have done so very well.

I also like how you include the famous authors, but not as a comparison to you. They are almost included as a standard you want to reach.

Overall, I enjoyed reading this.